


Anatheosis

by Ostentenacity



Series: the road home [3]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Background Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, Blind!Jonathan Sims, Domestic, F/F, Found Family, Gen, Happy Ending, lowkey a fix-it of my own fix-it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:28:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25363126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ostentenacity/pseuds/Ostentenacity
Summary: What if he’s telling the truth? What if Elias really is the world’s best shot at averting the apocalypse? What if this moment, right here, right now, is the very last turning point, the last chance to turn it aside?What if she chooses wrong?---Basira isn’t having second thoughts about turning down a certain promotion. Definitely not. It’s just that it’s not always easy to besurethat she’s making the right decision.
Relationships: Basira Hussain & Jonathan Sims, Basira Hussain/Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Martin Blackwood & Basira Hussain
Series: the road home [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1801396
Comments: 39
Kudos: 148





	1. Apogee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _anatheosis_ (noun):  
> 1\. descent from godhood or a state of divinity back to a human existence;  
> 2\. a word I made up because I needed an antonym for “apotheosis” and "peritheosis" didn't make any sense
> 
> This follows the same continuity established in [Kith and Kin](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24339217). It takes place during roughly the same time frame as [Indirect Embraces](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25205410), though the final chapter will take place a couple of weeks later than the ending of that one.
> 
> Thanks to [Bloodsbane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bloodsbane), [evanescent_jasmine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/evanescent_jasmine), and [Zykaben](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zykaben) for beta reading!
> 
> Content warnings at the end.

It’s very unfair, Basira thinks, that so many questions are involved in everyday conversation.

She isn’t sure whether asking everyday questions will set off her Archivist powers—it’s only happened when she’s asked questions she was really, truly curious about—but it seems foolish to take the risk. The only problem is, excising _how-are-you-_ s and _do-you-have-a-minute-_ s and all the other polite niceties from her speech makes her sound so stilted that she cringes every time she has to talk to people outside her small circle of friends. Sometimes she wonders idly if it might be easier to carry around paper and a pen everywhere, or take her chances with strangers knowing BSL. 

But a language that doesn’t use her voice is still a language, of course, which means that questions in that language are still questions. And she’s not entirely sure she can’t compel answers in writing, either.

She wonders if it would help that she sincerely  _ doesn’t _ want to find out. Probably not, though.

At least the head librarian, Diana, has stopped trying to make her staff the reference desk. Out of an abundance of caution, Basira, Daisy, and Martin had all agreed not to let on too many details of what working in the archives had entailed—not unless Elias starts making threatening moves, anyway—so Basira hasn’t exactly been able to explain her inability to inquire after patrons’ needs. It’s a good thing that Artifact Storage is full of so many strange and dangerous things; Basira is pretty sure that Diana thinks this is a side effect of a run-in with one of them.

“Hello?”

Basira refocuses. Hannah, the seniormost assistant librarian, is looking at her, eyebrows raised. Basira shakes her head slightly. “Sorry, I was just… lost in thought. What did you—ah, I missed what you said.”

“Just asked how you were doing,” says Hannah.

“Good, thank you,” says Basira, and puts on the most sincere smile she can manage. It doesn’t, of course, make up for the lack of a question in return, and Hannah turns away. Not offended, Basira thinks, but certainly dissatisfied with her response. 

Basira swaps her empty shelving cart for the fresh one waiting by the check-in desk and slinks back into the stacks.

* * *

She meets Daisy and Martin in the big upstairs breakroom for lunch. It’s not exactly busy, but the way the two of them are sitting at a table in the corner, sequestered from the rest of the staff by a row of empty tables, reminds her of secondary school. 

Basira sits down next to Daisy, who leans over to bump their shoulders together just slightly before sitting up straight again. Basira scoots her chair a few inches closer before unwrapping her sandwich.

From the other side of Daisy, Martin gives a cheery little wave. “Hi, Basira,” he says. “Bored of reshelving yet?”

She shrugs. “S’better than checking them in. At least I’m actually moving around.” Daisy snorts. “How about you?” Basira continues. “What is it this week? Check-out desk?”

Martin nods, but before he can continue, Daisy sighs. Basira turns her head to see Daisy staring mournfully at a small container of stir-fried vegetables, obviously left over from a recent dinner. “Daisy?”

“Think I was too ambitious when I packed my lunch today,” says Daisy with a sigh. “Martin, d’you still have—?”

Martin swaps the container with a pair of hard-boiled eggs from his own lunch. “Thanks,” Daisy mumbles.

Martin rests his right arm on the table next to Daisy’s left, and Daisy smiles and hooks their pinky fingers together. It’s obviously some kind of little ritual, and Basira’s heart squeezes. She’s not sure whether she’s happy at the sight or jealous.

To distract herself, she searches for another topic of conversation. “Reminds me of secondary school,” she remarks. Both Martin and Daisy look at her quizzically. She fiddles with the cuff of one sleeve. “We’re off in the unpopular kids’ corner, swapping lunches?”

That gets a chuckle out of both of them. “I never really understood the whole lunch trading thing,” says Martin, offhand. “Though that might have been because I never really had anything worth trading, so...”

He trails off, and Daisy quickly picks up the thread. “Well, I never got the chance either. Though I think that was less to do with the food and more to do with my personality.”

The two of them share another laugh. Basira’s heart squeezes again.

* * *

After spending so long in the archives, Basira still feels out-of-place in her flat sometimes. She’d dusted thoroughly when she’d gotten back—she’d had to, or she wouldn’t have been able to sleep for sneezing—but although the place is livable, it still doesn’t feel lived-in. 

She supposes she’ll get used to it. That, or move in with Daisy at some point. But…

She reaches up and rubs at her temples. She’s been at loose ends, recently, ever since she’d refused to become the new Archivist. And while she’s fine living around other people—her time staying in the archives is proof of that—she’s not sure she wants to start doing so again while she still feels so unbalanced. Not now that there’s an alternative.

She’ll get used to spending time with the others away from home first. Maybe then leaning on them for support won’t feel quite so painfully awkward.

The rest of the evening passes quietly. Eat dinner, read another chapter of her book, text Daisy intermittently. Enjoy the relative peace and quiet. She’s just climbing into bed when she realizes it’s been a few days since she’d last checked the mail. 

_ Oh well, _ she thinks. She’ll pick it up in the morning.

* * *

Basira wakes up the next morning feeling muddled. Her recent recurring nightmare had come by for a visit, and hours of wandering a barren void in search of something she can’t quite put her finger on has left her ill-rested. She’s sluggish getting out the door, and it isn’t until she’s half a block from home that she realizes she forgot about the mail.  _ Oh well, _ she thinks. She’ll pick it up after work—

But no, she can’t just leave it all there. Manila envelopes aren’t exactly small, and she doesn’t want to deal with whatever the procedure is when there’s no room in the box for new deliveries.

Basira turns back toward her building and goes to find her box in the mailroom. She’ll just have to tell Diana she missed her train. That’s a normal excuse, right? And it’s not like she’s likely to get fired, after all.

She wrestles the stack of envelopes out of the little metal box—the manila one gives her a bit of trouble, curled up and awkwardly stuffed in as it is—and deposits them on the end table next to her old armchair before heading out a second time.

It doesn’t occur to her until she’s walking through the doors of the Institute to wonder how she knew there was something unusual in her mail.

* * *

When she gets home, Basira has a headache. She’d almost slipped up and asked a direct question on her way home—an angry  _ what do you think you’re doing _ lobbed at a man who was standing much too close on the half-empty Tube platform. Fortunately, she’d managed to cut herself off before she’d finished speaking, and the man had slunk off without a word, but it had been too close. 

The mysterious envelope is still sitting there on her end table, upside-down. Basira scoops it up and opens it as she heads over to the cabinet where she keeps the paracetamol. She sets down both the bottle and the envelope as she fetches a glass of water, and then scoops up the envelope again, ready to soothe her aching skull.

...Wait.

Basira looks down at her hands. Glass of water in her left, sheaf of paper in her right. Bottle of paracetamol tablets between them on the countertop. There’s a sticky note on top of the sheaf of paper in her hand, covered in dense, loopy handwriting. Basira squints at it.

> _ I know you do not consider us to be on the same side, but I humbly ask you to hear out my request. I will not insult your intelligence by pretending that my motives are anything but selfish, nor by claiming that I have not wronged you and others greatly. I make no apology nor excuse, as I know you will accept neither. But our goals are the same, at least in the short term: we both want a world unspoiled by the influence of the other Dread Powers.  _
> 
> _ It is pointless to lie to you; I freely admit that I am working to set in motion the Rite of the Watcher’s Crown. But the Rite was last attempted less than two centuries ago, and will, by my estimation, be impossible for another seventy or eighty years at minimum—beyond the scope of both of our lifetimes. In contrast, the ritual concocted by the Lukas family for the Lonely is nearing readiness now.  _
> 
> _ When we have bested the Lukases, I fully expect us to return to our current stalemate. I neither ask nor expect any cooperation from you aside from what is necessary to ensure the downfall of our mutual enemy. But it would serve both of our aims to form a truce, at least for now. You have my word I will not move against you until the Lonely’s ritual is broken.  _
> 
> _ I have enclosed a statement that I believe may shed some light on the subject. Gertrude was a formidable ally and an even more formidable foe—in part due to her intelligence and ruthlessness, but also in part due to her abilities. If you wish to have any hope of eliminating the Lukas threat, I suggest you follow her example. _

There’s no signature, but the note doesn’t exactly need one. Basira scoffs and crumples the sheaf, preparing to lob it into the bin.

But then she frowns, smoothing the paper back out. She can’t trust Elias.  _ Obviously,  _ she can’t trust Elias. And after the whole debacle where she’d accidentally compelled Daisy to explain in excruciating detail how much Basira’s encouragement to Hunt was hurting her, she’s done with trying to be the Archivist. Finished. Full stop. Except…

Except, after witnessing the Unknowing first-hand, she’s hesitant to dismiss the danger of any of the rituals. And no matter how hard she’d searched, she’d never been able to find a single reference to a ritual for the Lonely.

_ So then how does Elias know? _ she asks herself. 

An ugly suspicion starts formulating itself in her mind. The timing is very convenient. She wonders if he would have told her the same thing in person, if she’d decided to take matters into her own hands and do away with him instead of allowing them both to slip into an uneasy stalemate. Maybe it would always have come down to this, Elias wagering his own obscure goals on Basira’s—or Jon’s—unwillingness to call his bluff when the world rested in the balance.

Bastard. Manipulative, scheming, lying bastard. Basira holds the papers out above the bin. 

But the tune of a calliope organ still dances unbidden through her mind. What if he’s telling the truth? What if Elias really is the world’s best shot at averting the apocalypse? What if this moment, right here, right now, is the very last turning point, the last chance to turn it aside?  _ What if she chooses wrong? _

(And what if she still turns out to need to read statements, like Jon had? It could be good to have one in reserve. For emergencies only, of course.)

Basira lets out a sound that’s half-groan and half-scream of frustration, and drops the papers to the floor. She needs painkillers and food and about fourteen hours of sleep. She cannot, absolutely _ cannot, _ deal with this right now.

When she heads out the door for work the next morning, the statement is still lying in a heap on the floor, next to—but not in—the rubbish bin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: brief reference to Daisy having some issues with food; a bit of jealousy; unnamed stranger being vaguely creepy on a train platform; Elias being a manipulative bastard
> 
> Want to make my day? Tell me something you liked!


	2. Perigee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3 is a short one, so I’ll post chapter 4 the following Sunday instead of waiting another week.
> 
> Content warnings at the end.

Basira doesn’t tell the others about Elias’s note. At least, not at first, she promises herself. She’ll tell them once she’s sure what she’s doing.

She knows it’s not a good idea to keep it to herself. She can practically  _ hear _ their scolding voices, chastising her for keeping secrets, for letting Elias get under her skin. But Daisy would be literally worried sick, and while Jon  _ probably  _ isn’t the type for gloating or recriminations, something within Basira recoils from telling him that she’s struggling with the same thing she called him a monster for. 

How had she been disarmed so easily? She’d been utterly convinced that Jon, with his blatant unnatural abilities and his collection of traumatized victims, was deeper underwater than she’d ever be foolish enough to venture. It would be easy to avoid making his mistakes: refuse obvious traps and don’t hurt people, just like that. But when it had been her turn, it hadn’t been so simple. Every step seemed so natural, so  _ reasonable _ in the moment. It hadn’t been until she’d looked back that she’d realized how far she’d strayed from the shore.

Worse yet, she’s not entirely sure she was wrong to do so, even now. Becoming the Archivist couldn’t be more obviously a trap if it had had a neon sign proclaiming “Road To Monsterhood!” And yet Gertrude Robinson had been the Archivist and had saved the world half a dozen times, if the statements were to be believed.

Basira’s foul mood keeps both Diana, Hannah, and almost all the rest of the Institute staff at a distance all day. It doesn’t work on Martin and Daisy, of course. She can’t fail to turn up for lunch without both of them getting all concerned over it, so she makes an appearance, but she can tell that they know something’s not right anyway. Neither of them ask outright, but Daisy is quiet, choosing silence over her usual blunt manner, while Martin, in contrast, is even more solicitous than usual. 

She’s back to tidying the shelves when she realizes she’s being stupid. Daisy and Jon may be out, but they’re not the only people with relevant experience. Martin may never have been offered the choice between monsterhood and the fate of the world, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t work with Peter for a good long time. He might very well have the evidence she’s looking for.

She finds him at the check-out desk, chatting comfortably with someone—a researcher, maybe?—as he scans their books. The two of them seem to share an easy camaraderie, swapping chatter back and forth with the familiarity of old friends.

Basira waits to approach until the researcher is gone. Martin smiles when he catches sight of her. “Basira, hello! Everything all right? Need something?”

“I wanted to talk to you, if you have a minute,” says Basira, feeling awkward.

“Sure,” says Martin. “Chair?” He doesn’t wait for her to answer, standing and going to fetch one immediately. Basira fiddles with her sleeve cuff as he walks back over.

“Thanks,” she says, sitting down and crossing her ankles. She’d been prepared to jump straight into the conversation, but the brief pause had served to sharpen her nerves, so instead she remarks, “Friend of yours, I’d guess.”

“Who? Oh, Kate? Not really, she’s more of a friendly acquaintance,” says Martin. 

Basira frowns. “Real—um. You seemed like you knew her pretty well.”

“I’m trying to practice talking to people,” he says, almost sheepish. “I used to be pretty good at it. Good to hear I’m improving, I guess?” He shrugs, refocusing. “But that’s not what you’re here about, I’m guessing.”

“It’s not,” says Basira, and pauses while she searches for the right words. “You worked with Peter for a while,” she says at length.

Martin winces.

“Sorry,” says Basira hastily, with a wince of her own. “Sorry, I just—I have something I want to know. I wouldn’t ask—I wouldn’t bring it up unless I thought it was important.”

Martin’s expression softens minutely, though he still seems guarded. “What do you want to know?” he asks.

“I'm wondering if… if Peter ever mentioned something about a ritual. For the Lonely, you know,” says Basira. 

Martin ponders this for a minute or two. Eventually, he says, “Not… as such? But he… well, he  _ said _ he wanted me to participate in a ritual of sorts, to try and prevent the Extinction from emerging. He never gave me many details, and by the end I guess I sort of figured he had ulterior motives and was just bullshitting me? Especially because he just up and vanished once I heard the news about Jon.”

Basira blinks. Whatever she’d expected, it hadn’t been to find out that her assumptions about Martin had been dead wrong. “Is that—uh. I mean, I assume that’s why you were… isolating yourself?”

Martin nods. 

Basira takes a deep breath and lets it out. “I’d like to know a few things about… how you made the decision to stop cooperating with him,” she says carefully. “And the reasons why you thought he was lying to you, and… how you feel about your decision in retrospect.”

There’s a beat of silence while Martin looks at her, just a hair too long to go unnoticed. Basira fights back the urge to squirm. She’d never noticed before how piercing Martin’s gaze is. But then he smiles, and the moment breaks. “Sure! But not right now, I think. I am working, after all.”

There aren’t any researchers waiting for Martin’s attention, but Basira suspects he was making a veiled comment about the Institute itself. She nods and excuses herself back to the depths of the library.

* * *

Jon had mentioned, once, a while ago, that Gertrude had had a habit of removing any and all pictures of eyes from the covers of books she owned. It had seemed like a minor oddity at the time—weird enough to stick in her mind, but not important enough for any great consideration. Later, she’d noticed that some of the photographs, paintings, and posters in the archives were noticeably newer than the decorations in the rest of the Institute. Again, a minor oddity, to be puzzled over briefly and dismissed—except that the archives had once been Gertrude’s domain, and all the newer decorations happened to feature faces.

It had  _ then  _ occurred to her that the Institute had a surprising number of safety and public service flyers posted in the halls and various rooms. All of which, without exception, featured human or animal figures with distinct eyes. Even ones which featured otherwise plain silhouettes had lines or dots to mark the right place.

Out of curiosity, Basira had walked through the library a few times, noting the placement of all of the various images. Even in the stacks, she hadn’t found a single inch of space not under a watchful paper eye.

She has no evidence that it means anything, of course. There’s not exactly a way she can test her vague suspicions. But the tunnels are unreachable now that the archive have been closed off in preparation for its contents to be divvied up and loaned to the Institute’s various sister organizations, so when it comes time to have that talk with Martin, Basira leads him out of the Institute and into the pub that she and Melanie had occasionally visited after work back before everything had gone sour. 

It’s quiet there, which will mean less chance of eavesdroppers. But more to the point, the odd placement of the loo not only shields one of the booths from the front door and windows, but also happens to put it in a camera blind spot. She and Melanie had both noticed it the first time they’d gone there to grab a drink after work; although Melanie hadn’t worked with many  _ security _ cameras, per se, she was accustomed to both holding and hiding the more mundane sort, and could work out the angles as well as Basira could. Ever since then, they’d made a point of always sitting in that booth when it was available. It had been a joke at first.

Basira shakes off the memory and sits down at the table. She waits until the waiter has come and gone before fixing Martin with a stare and saying, “So.”

“So,” Martin agrees. “What did you want to know?”

“You didn’t go back to Peter once you walked away from him and his plans,” says Basira. “I’d like to know why.”

Martin shrugs. “Like I said, I’m pretty sure he was lying to me,” he says. “About some of it, at least.”

“But how did you  _ know?” _ asks Basira.

“I didn’t,” says Martin. “I had no way of knowing for sure. I just had to trust I hadn’t missed anything when I was trying to work out what he’d do if everything he was saying  _ was _ real.” He frowns. “You asked that one directly.”

Basira winces belatedly. “Sorry. I—it’s easy to slip up. I’ll try not to do it again.”

“It’s fine,” says Martin. 

Basira’s not sure it actually is fine, but at any rate he seems to have decided to let it go, so she lets him sweep the conversation along. “I’d like to know what you mean, about… working it out,” she says.

Martin pauses for a little while, thinking. “I figure, he was telling the truth about not wanting the Extinction to take over,” he says at length. “And at first, I thought he was being honest about the rest of it, too, but the way he talked about what he needed me for… it didn’t sound quite right. Like he was telling a story. It was too…  _ neat.  _ Too perfect. The idea that—well, that  _ I _ of all people, but also anyone, really—could be the only person in the  _ entire world _ who was poised exactly right to stop it from happening? No. I mean, sure, maybe the sort of person he was looking for is  _ rare _ . I could believe that. But—I mean, there are so many real statements in the archives, and we only ever hear from people who are willing to talk to the Crackpot Institute. There had to be someone else in the  _ world— _ probably a lot of someones—who were close enough.”

“So you figured, if he was on the level, he would have a better backup plan,” Basira summarizes.

Martin nods. “Yeah, exactly. And, if he  _ didn’t  _ have a better backup plan, then he wouldn’t have given up so easily. I mean, the alternative is that we’re completely screwed and the apocalypse is right around the corner, but if that’s true, there’s nothing I can do to stop it. May as well assume that Peter was a liar, and not that he really believed he could stop the end of the world but then gave up because he figured it would be too hard to convince me to come back.”

Basira nods slowly, thinking hard. His story both does and doesn’t help. On the one hand, the unlikely fragility of the whole plot is very familiar. On the other…

On the other, Elias hasn’t exactly given up yet.

Martin speaks again, interrupting her train of thought. “Any particular reason you wanted to know?”

Basira doesn’t want to tell him about the statement. This strikes her as potentially worrisome. She compromises with herself, letting on more than she’d planned to at the beginning of this conversation: “Without the Archivist, it would be hard to stop a ritual, even  _ if _ we managed to find out where and when one was happening in advance. And we never found anything about the Lonely.” She sighs. “As Elias pointed out to me.”

Martin’s eyebrows snap together. “Elias is—”

“A liar, not to be trusted, almost certainly using me. Yes, I know,” says Basira, fighting to keep her voice from turning cross. It’s a legitimate concern for him to have, she reminds herself. “But even so, I’m not sure I want to call his bluff.”

They’re both quiet for a little while. 

Then Martin says, “Say, for the sake of argument, that he’s  _ not _ bluffing.”

Basira thinks it through. “If he’s not bluffing, then why would he be keeping secrets from us and getting in our way, even now? Surely it would be better for him to make himself into an ally, if he really wants our help. He could demonstrate that we can trust him, instead of… this.” She sighs. “I really, really hope we’re right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: canon-typical end-of-the-world anxiety
> 
> Want to make my day? Tell me something you liked!


	3. Splashdown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 4 up tomorrow!
> 
> Content warnings at the end.

In the end, Basira isn’t sure.

After her conversation with Martin, she gives herself a few days to think it over, to puzzle out all the implications, to obsess over each word in Elias’s note. It helps, and it doesn’t help. On the one hand, Elias’s story doesn’t hold water; Basira goes back and forth a bit, before deciding that if Elias really was concerned about the Lukases and their maybe-ritual, then handing the Institute over to Peter on a silver platter had been so colossally foolish a mistake that it beggars belief.

On the other hand, the fact that she’s argued herself into a logical corner doesn’t mean that she actually believes her own conclusion. Or, rather, it doesn’t mean that she believes  _ in _ her own conclusion.

_ Better the devil you know, _ she catches herself thinking in weak moments. Or,  _ Better safe than sorry. _ Or,  _ But what if I’m wrong? _

But she can’t put off the choice forever. Eventually, choosing  _ not _ to get rid of the thing will become a decision in and of itself, rather than just a delaying tactic. And truth be told, she’s tired of all of this.

She’s not so sure that she can trust herself anymore, not the way she used to. But she  _ has _ to be able to trust her friends. And she knows, without a scrap of doubt, exactly what they would advise her to do.

* * *

_ Our goals are the same, _ says Elias’s handwriting.  _ It would serve both of our aims to form a truce. _

Basira scribbles an eye at the top of the note—just an oval and a dot. “You think we’d be better off working together, hmmm?” she says aloud. “You should have thought of that  _ before _ you made an enemy of me.”

Before she can second-guess herself some more, Basira tosses the note into her metal wastepaper bin. It lands neatly on top of the statement.

The lit match lands neatly on top of the note.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: None.


	4. Recovery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings at the end.

“Good,” says Jon seriously. “I’m glad you’re still burning them.”

He and Basira are sitting next to each other in the living room of the flat he, Martin, and Daisy share; he’s curled up on the armchair while she sits on the sofa. Basira has taken to coming over a few times a week for dinner ever since she burned the statement a month ago.

She’s had to burn a few more since then. Elias hasn’t sent another note, but the statements keep turning up in her mail, her desk, her bag. She’d found the latest one in her inbox in the library office, and had had to ignore it for several hours until she’d had a chance to burn it. The prickle of doubt she feels every time she gets rid of one hasn’t gone away, but her friends are there every time as well, to soothe her nerves and remind her of the reasons she made the decision in the first place.

Her knack for knowing when statements are nearby has almost entirely gone, which is probably a good sign. It’s an unpleasant surprise every time she stumbles across one, but at least it  _ is _ a surprise.

Basira is drawn out of her thoughts by Jon’s voice. “Basira?” he says hesitantly, a worried little wrinkle developing between his eyebrows.

“Oh—sorry. Still here,” she says. “Just lost in thought. You’d think I would get used to getting rid of them by now.” She sighs. “You don’t seem like the type to say ‘I told you so,’ but...”

Jon’s face had smoothed out as soon as she started talking. “I wouldn’t,” he says. “It’s not easy to refuse that sort of thing. Especially when you have to choose over and over again, not just once, and it’s not always obvious when you  _ are _ choosing.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t realize before,” Basira begins, but Jon cuts her off with a vague flap of the hand. 

“It’s fine,” he says. “You had plenty of reason to doubt me. I don’t blame you for that.”

Basira rolls her eyes. “I’m rolling my eyes at you,” she says, the way she’s heard Martin and Daisy do. A little cautiously, in case it’s a custom she’s not allowed to share in, but the corner of Jon’s mouth twitches up. 

The conversation turns to lighter topics. Daisy wanders out of her room after a while, still a little ruffled from her nap—she often needs a brief lie-down in the evenings, apparently, especially near the end of the week—and stretches out next to Basira on the sofa.

“Hi, Jon, s’Daisy,” she mumbles, rubbing a hand over her face.

“Hello, Daisy,” he says. “Sleep well?”

Basira can see the exact moment Daisy gets fed up with trying to find a comfortable sitting position, and has about three seconds of warning before there is a pillow and an upper body in her lap. “Mmmm,” is all Daisy says. Basira smiles and gently runs a hand through her hair.

“That’s good,” says Jon. When neither Daisy nor Basira say anything more, his eyelids flutter slightly. “Did you fall asleep again?”

“Nnnn.”

“Are you  _ going _ to?”

Daisy doesn’t answer, so Basira says quietly, a smile in her voice, “I think she probably is.”

Jon nods. “I’ll let you two have some peace and quiet, then,” he says, sounding just slightly teasing, and wanders off, one hand trailing along the wall, towards the kitchen and the faint sound of Martin humming along to the radio.

A faint snore drifts up from Basira’s lap. She already knew that Daisy isn’t the quietest sleeper, but it’s been a while since she last experienced it for herself. It’ll take some getting used to, if she moves in like Daisy and the others have been less-than-subtly inviting her to consider. 

She hadn’t thought she was prepared, before. Hadn’t thought there was a place here for her, not yet. But maybe it’s not about waiting for the perfect moment. Maybe it’s about  _ making _ that moment. Shifting and sliding and rearranging the pieces together, until there’s a space that’s just right.

* * *

The process of packing up might have gone a little easier if Basira had turned down some of the offers of help from her soon-to-be flatmates. Not because any of them are bad at this, or impeding the process somehow; it’s just that there’s hardly room for all three of them and her  _ and _ the luggage in her little studio flat.

Daisy is folding clothes into a suitcase from her seat on the solitary armchair; Jon is sitting on a stool at the only counter in her tiny kitchenette, painstakingly wrapping dishes in paper and arranging them in a box. Basira and Martin, meanwhile, are finding it increasingly difficult to navigate the floor as the  _ stuff _ accumulates. Basira had thought she lived a relatively minimalistic life. How laughably wrong she’d been. Even with all the windows and the door propped open, it feels crowded.

Eventually, Basira finds herself sitting on the floor next to Daisy, for lack of another seat. Basira takes over the actual packing part of the operation, so that Daisy doesn’t have to bend over so much. 

Once they’re finished, Basira stands and stretches. The flat isn’t big enough for real privacy, but Jon and Martin are off in the other end of the living space while they finish up with the kitchen, and they’re talking quietly besides, so Basira doesn’t feel too odd about leaning against the back of the armchair and draping her arms around Daisy’s shoulders from behind. Daisy hums and presses her face against Basira’s bicep, rubbing her cheek against her sleeve.

Basira chuckles. “What are you, a cat?” she teases, with no real heat in her voice.

“Shhh,” says Daisy, also teasing. “Don’t say that word around those two unless you’re ready for  _ another _ flatmate.”

Laughing along with Daisy is still easy, as it turns out, even now that so much has changed since the early days of their relationship. Basira had been worried, for a while, that her stubbornness had mucked everything up. That Daisy—Daisy the notorious loner, Daisy who’d only ever had one close companion at a time before—had moved on to someone else, would never welcome her back the same way. But that’s not true at all. 

There are parts of Daisy’s life that belong to other people, now. Inside jokes that Basira doesn’t understand, habits and pastimes she didn’t get to watch develop. But that’s a good thing, she thinks. A normal thing, a  _ human _ thing, to have a community, and not just a counterpart.

When Basira walks out of the cramped little flat where she’d lived alone for the past seven years, she doesn’t look back.

* * *

It’s dark here, and empty. Basira thinks it would probably be cold, if the temperature was discernible at all. But the air—if there is air—is still and empty, and the surface she stands on feels like… nothing. Like the absence of feeling, numbness given solid form.

She’s dreaming, of course. This nightmare has been coming less and less often of late, but it still drops in to bother her every now and then. Sometimes it’s so clear and  _ vivid— _ the odd emptiness of her surroundings notwithstanding—that she thinks she must be lucid dreaming, but she can’t control anything here in this colorless void. She just drifts for a while, bored and unsettled, until it fades away and she wakes up.

There’s something missing. There’s always something missing, every time she’s here. This whole place feels like a… like a  _ socket, _ like there’s something that should fit into the domed, hungry space above, like the emptiness around her wants to be filled. Like there should be something (someone?) to see, to  _ watch. _ But whatever it is that would complete this dream, she doesn’t think she wants to find it. 

Basira closes her eyes.

She wakes up somewhere soft and warm and gloriously real. Well—mostly warm. One of her feet is poking out from under the blankets, and she can already tell it’ll take a frustratingly long time to warm back up. 

The edge of the building next door is barely visible through the dim window; the light coming through is the pale, watery color of dawn filtered through thick clouds. Occasionally, there’s a flicker of yellow- or bluish-white, or red, as the lights on passing cars reflect off of rain-slick concrete and glass.

Martin’s always going on about night-time rain making the world feel  _ strange  _ and _ mysterious, _ but privately, Basira doesn’t agree. It’s just rain. It happens all the time. Nothing to puzzle over, no answers to find; just water, and a chill in the air, and the soft sound of raindrops falling to earth.

Basira shifts around, getting comfortable. As she does, there’s a faint rustling noise from the other side of the bed. She stills immediately, keeping her breathing steady and light. Much as she’d like to share this moment with Daisy, it wouldn’t be right to deprive her of even a little bit of sleep. Daisy stops moving after a bit, and Basira relaxes back into the mattress. 

This time, when she falls asleep, she doesn’t dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: unreality, nightmares
> 
> Want to make my day? Tell me what part was your favorite :)


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